The welcoming committee at Ondra Fort

The welcoming committee emerged as soon as we began our ascent up the steps to the Ondra Fort, Gulmit, on a sunny day in August 2022. They were suddenly there in dozens, scampering out from under the rocks, peeping shyly at the two intruders invading their sanctum. Some of them had probably never even seen a human before. The shyer ones peeked from behind the bushes and the rocky ledges; the bolder ones stared unblinkingly at us from their perches. Some even hopped up behind us on the steps like small curious children.

While my better half was ready to faint for me, this encounter with the lizards of Ondra Fort was an amazing outcome of the isolation forced on the world by two years of the relentless Covid pandemic.

Although Covid adversely impacted tourism around the world, shutting down businesses and leaving people depressed and homebound, residents of places off the beaten track not only survived Covid but also appeared to have thrived on the enforced human absence from their worlds. The lizards of Ondra Fort appeared almost giddy in our presence as they cavorted around us, strangely not unnerved by the first humans they had seen in a while. After all, with the average life of a lizard in the wild being around five years and vastly reduced tourism in recent years, the odd hiker they encountered was more of an oddity attracting their curiosity than a threat making them run for cover as hordes of tourists had done in the not so distant a past. Like the rest of the world, nature and wildlife in Pakistan also hit the reset button with Covid. It appears that nature revives when humans are forced to stay away.

A lesson learnt from all this is the desperate need for eco-tourism not only in Pakistan but across the world. The pandemic has only served to emphasize this need if nature is to survive. Some new resorts like two Magpies in Aliabad and Camp Leo in Nagar are excellent examples of eco-tourism. While two Magpies caters to bird lovers and even arranges bird tours around Hunza, Camp Leo in Nagar, named after a snow leopard, promotes protection of snow leopards. There is an increasing need for nature retreats like these that promote responsible tourism and enable us to enjoy the amazing natural beauty and wildlife that our country offers without polluting it or endangering it until all we are left with are distant memories.

Niaz Akbar, a development professional and an avid traveller, blogs at www.travelpangs.com and can be reached at niazakbar@gmail.com

The year of the broken tibia

“Inspired by the Chinese, I want to identify each year of my life with a major event… in my case, these events have been disasters. I will call 2022 the year of the broken tibia.

“I can’t read it,” I told the woman who had brought a disclosure for me to sign.

“Oh, sorry. This one is not in English? Let me get you a translation,” she took the paper from my hand and rushed out of the door. The disclosure was about my rights before, during and after the surgery I was about to go through at Reykjavik’s Landspitali Hospital. What brought me to that hospital? Four days earlier, when we landed in Iceland, I could not even imagine I would be going through surgery in that small Scandinavian country.

It was a while back that I included sports in a long list of things I am clumsy at. So, I keep away from any physical activity that could be remotely related to fun.

After reaching Iceland, we had been crossing off our list of things to do on that northern island. Even before leaving for the trip, the young man of the family had decided his Iceland visit would not be complete without spending some time snowboarding. He wanted to try the slopes at Blafjoll ski resort. After our arrival in Iceland, it had been windy for days and the ski resort was closed. But then the weather changed. The winds died down and the sun came out. In hindsight, I can see how the trap was set for me. We drove to Blafjoll, a short drive from where we were staying in Reykjavik. The plan was to drop the young man at the slopes and head to the nearby hot springs, but one thing led to another and we stayed watching the avid skateboarder get better and better at snowboarding. A few runs down the slope, the sportsman decided to use the toilet. He put his snowboard in front of me and headed to the restroom. And then, in a most stupid move, I put my right foot on the snowboard. Under my weight, the snowboard started to move. When things move and you have little control over them, you move with them; all young people know this, but this old man did the opposite. I tried to resist with my left foot firmly in its place. The snowboard moved and then turned, forcing my left leg to twist beyond its capacity. As I fell into the snow, I heard a snapping sound. I knew I had done some serious damage to my left leg. A long chain of events followed. Several hours later, at the main hospital in Reykjavik, the verdict was out: I had managed to break both bones in the lower part of my left leg. There was some anatomy for me to learn. I had been using the leg bones all my life without knowing their names. Shame on me. There was a spiral fracture in the tibia (the bone that takes the load) and a linear fracture in the fibula (the bone that has the muscles wrapped around it). Surgery was needed to put a rod and screws in the tibia to support the bone in the right place and for the healing process to begin.

The hospital took good care of me and put my left leg in a cast. I was told I had ten days to get the surgery done. I could have the procedure done in Iceland or go back to California and get the surgery done there. But there was a third choice too. I was in communication with my folks in Pakistan, who insisted I come to Pakistan and get the surgery done there. The third option made a lot of sense since it ensured good postop care. But that option came with the same predicament the second option posed: taking long flights with a leg in a cast. Even travelling first class, having enough room to stretch the leg and keep it high did not look viable. So I decided to let the Icelandic doctors take care of me. And what a wonderful job they did! Within forty-eight hours, they scheduled me for surgery; the operation lasted for an hour, and sixteen hours after a rod was put in my left tibia, I was released from the hospital. Amazing how a country of less than four hundred thousand people can produce such professional medical personnel.

How much did the surgery cost? That’s where the Icelandic Health Care System deserves a bow. Before the surgery, when I was presented with a pile of papers to read and sign, I thought it included something about the surgery and the hospitalisation costs. No, I was wrong. I was not even asked how I planned to pay. After the surgery, when I was being discharged from the hospital, I thought I would be given a bill to take care of before leaving the hospital. That did not happen either. In fact, I had to ask for the bill. “Don’t worry. Just go home. We will send you the bill later,” I was told. Two days after the surgery, I left Iceland. Did Iceland not take into consideration an absconding patient? After leaving Iceland, it took a couple of email requests from me for the Landspitali Hospital to finally send me the medical bill. Considering the high level of professionalism in the medical care I was provided, the bill was very reasonable, a little less than fourteen thousand US dollars. I asked them if I could pay in instalments, and the hospital agreed to break down the cost into twelve payments. My fourth instalment went out two weeks ago and I will happily pay the remaining balance soon.”

– AH Cemendtaur, social commentator and traveller

A tale of magical adventures

“Finally, we got rid of all the additional hassle in the form of uncomfortable nose insertions and extra seepage from the wallets as a prerequisite before climbing onto any plane or boat. Normalcy was restored to the world of travel somewhere during the year.

I was away on my North African sojourn when the year started and was quite amazed by the enthusiasm with which Tunisians welcomed the New Year. The turn of the year is such a landmark event for some cultures and a mere change of dates for others. Next door in Algeria, a country that doesn’t have its doors wide open for tourists, the warmth and interest of locals was a treat to experience. I joined a group of youngsters in Bordj Bou Areridj to search for a picturesque but obscure village deep in the Kabylia mountains, the only clue to which was a picture I had seen on the internet – a magical adventure.

A couple of months later, a night under the incredibly star-studded black sky in the vast expanse of Wadi Rum, having tea with a lone Pashtun trader in the souk of As-Salt where no other non-locals could be seen doing business, visiting the grave of the prophet after whom I am named, after discovering by coincidence that it wasn’t far from my path, were the highlights of a visit to Jordan.

In summer, I was moved the most by the spectacle of the drinking water fountains of Yerevan. I observed people bowing to drink refreshing cool water sprouting from a single source for everyone without distinction; whether in a bride’s dress or rags, infants lifted by their mothers or pets held by their owners, all creatures turn by turn united in their need for something so elementary as water. To sit there and watch that never-ending procession was a relaxation for the senses.

Towards the end, I found myself in the southernmost corner of the civilised world, in South America. In the rugged snow-capped mountains around glaciers – the size of big cities as well as deep in the forests of Patagonia – chants of excitement and celebration of football could be heard. The World Cup was going on and the cup returned to Latin America. Still, nature swayed gently, indifferent to its own immense beauty and scale and unmoved by the temporal frenzies that affect its human visitors, for it has been seeing it all since the beginning.”

– Shueyb Gandapur, a chartered accountant by profession and an avid traveller and photographer by passion, has travelled to 85 countries on his Pakistani passport. He shares picture stories from his travels on his Instagram handle @ShueybGandapur

Rock art discoveries in Kirthar

“Kirthar range, which separates Sindh from Balochistan, is one of the critical regions of rock art in Sindh. I discovered many rock art sites during my trips to Kirthar range and other hilly regions of Sindh since 1998. Rock art is distributed in Kirthar, Bhit and Bado mountain ranges, Mahar, Karo and other hills and Nains (hill streams) in Sindh. The most prominent valleys (Nais) where I discovered rock art sites include Seeta, Mazarani, Keharji, Radh, Buri, Khurbi, Makhi, Sallari, Gaj, Nari/ Nali, Kukrani, Angai, Thado, Mol and Baran.

In 2022, I discovered nine rock-art sites in Makhi, Sallari, Khurbi, Gaj and Angai valleys and a few exciting petroglyphs in Gaj and Angai valleys. Both valleys are located in the Kirthar range in the Dadu district. Representations of some of the shrines and game boards in the rock art of the Angai valley were fascinating. Apart from the depiction of shrines, I found some ethnographic petroglyphs in the Angai valley. The main motifs include handprints, footprints, shoeprints and a variety of weapons. Interestingly, choppers, aircraft, fighter jets, trucks and buses are also depicted in the rock art of the Angai valley. Based on the most recent and earlier discoveries, I have decided to write two books, one on contemporary rock art entitled Understanding Rock Art with Ethnography and the other on shrines with the title Signs and Shrines in Sindh’s Rock Art.

– Zulfiqar Ali Kalhoro, anthropologist, is the author of 12 books on ethnography, cultural heritage, art and religion in Pakistan

Travelling with friends

“In November this year, five school friends from three continents decided to get together in Turkey for a week. We walked, ate, shopped, laughed and got some lessons the hard way. I expect the same for you unless you learn a thing or two from us.

Lesson #1: Never exchange currency at the airport. They shall fleece you. Always do it downtown. Lesson #2: Always eat after checking reviews on Yelp. We suffered the only time we didn’t and ate doner kebabs at a street dhaba. Lesson # 3: Be careful about eating raw fruit from the streets, pears in our case, lest it makes you look for toilets in the middle of nowhere. Lesson #4: Always buy stuff whenever you find it, or you shall pay through your nose at the airport shops while leaving. Lesson #5: Always reconfirm your hotel booking in advance, especially if it is an online booking; otherwise, the hotel may decide not to welcome you at the last minute, and you’ll end up sitting in the lobby and fighting among yourselves and with hotel staff. Lesson #6: Never leave your phone in a taxi or your passport in the back of the plane seat; forgetting it is more common than you may think, and you may not be as lucky as us to get them back. Lesson #7: Never discuss politics during a trip with friends, especially if one of them supports a particular party claiming to represent the youth. You shall end up frustrated. Lesson #8: After three decades of living on three continents, friends develop different tastes, so be receptive to discussion on different breeds of Anatolian dogs, mating habits of honey bees and the art of masonry, and yes, some of them would just think about food and fruit, learn to accept them for what they are. Lesson # 9: Never go for a Turkish bath with friends without knowing what it essentially entails.

The only negative side of travelling with school friends is that you don’t remember the place or the food. You only remember the company, so do travel and have fun before your knees start complaining.”

– Dr Omar Mukhtar Khan is a development professional with a passion for travel and heritage. He tweets @omk1973.

Where even hell would freeze over….

“Outside of Pakistan, Copenhagen is the city I’ve been to most – ten times – other than Kathmandu. But it’s usually in summer or early winter when there is no snow or rarely below five degrees Centigrade with mercury at its lowest. I’ve been to the Danish capital once in February when thick snow covered everything, but it wasn’t even below five degrees. But I was there a few days ago, arriving at around three in the afternoon and hit by a minus one degree even with a feeble sun out, as warned by the pilot. I was prepared physically but not mentally. I’m not used to Copenhagen this cold. Here to attend a professional engagement, I was to be in this gloriously beautiful, if a rather wistful and windy city, for about a week. By the third day, it was discernibly frigid, a light snowfall had started to fall by late night, and a colleague said when she went for her twice-a-week extended early morning run, it was minus seven. I could believe it – my muffler and woolly cap covering my head and ears were struggling to keep me warm. My brown nose was starting to turn red, and even going for dinner from the hotel to one of my favourite eating places near Nørregade, run by a group of Nepalese women who make a killer tamarind curry, had lost its appeal. Another colleague the next day said the cold was unusual by even local standards and was surely payback for a gloriously longish summer run a few weeks ago when the temperatures had risen to almost kiss 30 degrees. By my last night, when I was invited to a Christmas dinner attended by dozens of colleagues, my first day of minus one degree looked positively summerish. Taking a train and finding the party spot in the city’s suburbs was so cold it seemed even hell would freeze over. A colleague said it was minus 11. Another said she had at one point read minus 13. The short walk from the station to the dinner barn seemed to take forever. Even my warmers were failing, and I thought my fingers would fall off. The dinner was fabulous, with song and dance et al, but it was a distant memory three minutes into my way back in the raven-black dark. This was the coldest night of my life. So much for my plans to visit Antarctica soon….”

– Adnan Rehmat is a political analyst and media development specialist. He can be reached at adrehmat@gmail.com

The Kelpies: world’s largest equine sculptures

“Going to Scotland from England is an attention-grabbing experience on another level – the surreal lush green landscape, the openness of the land and the abundance of rivers. Clyde and Kelvin’s rivers catch your attention due to their enormous flowing magnitude; the Caledonian Canal, masterminded by Thomas Telford, and Forth and Clyde Canal, which isn’t used for the traffic anymore, though it still mesmerises. There are thousands of freshwater lochs in the area, but one would require a year-long field trip or more to cover them all. However, we did drive up to Loch Ness and Loch Lomond and got awestruck by the volume of water surrounded by beautiful countryside panoramic landscape.

Once we were done with the Riverside Museum visit, designed by the iconic Zaha Hadid, we decided to visit mammoth sculptures known as the Kelpies the following day, named after the mythical water horses on Scottish lochs and rivers. According to the architect Andy Scott, you will first see these colossal horseheads welcome you to Scotland when you arrive by ship from Europe or elsewhere in Britain. In Scottish tradition, a kelpie is a perilous aquatic monster that can assume the form of a horse on land. The kelpies trick their human prey into riding on their back by seeming to be a grey or white horse, then drag them down to a watery grave. However, this idea ultimately faded, and the kelpie tale was used to deter kids from playing too close to lochs and raging rivers. It also urged women to be aware of attractive strangers.

Once we approached the site of Helix eco-park in Falkirk near Edinburgh – a 740-acre park of forests, walks and cycleways, two vast equine heads welcomed us, which are a monument to Scotland’s horse-powered industrial heritage. One is a rearing head, its neck taut and mouth open, and the second is relaxed. An exciting use of technology created these jaw-dropping sculptures. Two precise three-dimensional digital assets from the pictures of two real-life Clydesdale horses named Duke and Baron.

With millions of visitors since its opening, Scotland’s most well-known public artworks are the Kelpies statues. If a miniature of the Angel of the North on BBC1’s Antiques Roadshow could be valued at £1 million, Andy’s four model Kelpies may also fetch that much or more in the future.”

– Aarish Sardar, an art/ design critic, heads the Department of Visual Communication Design at Mariam Dawood School of Visual Arts and Design, Beaconhouse National University, Lahore